


Within and Without

by ThePreciousHeart



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Bad Dreams, Dreams, Expanded One-Shot, Gen, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Movie(s), Post-Series, Present Tense, Recovery, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePreciousHeart/pseuds/ThePreciousHeart
Summary: Within the Lodge, time is measured not in minutes, but in moments.Outside the Lodge, it's hard to readjust.





	1. Moments (Meanwhile....)

**Author's Note:**

> So, who else is excited about the Twin Peaks revival? In honor of the coming occasion, I dug out this three-part work I wrote after watching the series for the first time a couple years ago. Originally there was a plot (and an extra part), but as I didn't want the story to seem terribly outdated once the new episodes started airing, I polished it into something different.
> 
> [Post-revival edit: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE THIS SIMPLE]
> 
> The first part was originally posted as the one-shot "Moments..."

       At first, there are two- the Man and the ring. He stumbles into the room by mistake, not wanting to enter but compelled in his search for a way out. One could call it a happy accident. The Man greets him not with answers, but with strange speech and characteristically cryptic riddles.

       “Do you know who I am?”

       He doesn’t move a muscle, partly out of a scientific sense of observation, partly because he feels that reacting to the Man spells harm.

      “I am the Arm.” The Man’s grin is secretive, alluring. “And I sound like this…”

        When the Man offers the ring, he suddenly knows- just as well as he knows that the sky is blue, he’s a human being, and he doesn’t belong here- that Laura Palmer is on the receiving end. And if she accepts the ring, she will die. He sees her as clearly as he would if she were sitting right in front of him. Garbed in her smooth black nightgown, she props herself up in bed, lost inside the horrors in her head. He has never met the real Laura Palmer- only an empty husk at the hospital, and several sinister shades of her that roam the walls of the Lodge. Even the Laura who touched him once and tried to aid him felt artificial, more like a mental reconstruction of her than her true soul.

      But this is the real Laura, staring at him in lucid terror. Warm, vital Laura- living, breathing Laura. And she is in danger, the nature of which he knows all too well. So he dares to meet her eyes, ignoring the Man beside him, and fervently murmurs, “Don’t take the ring, Laura. _Don’t take the ring.”_

He doubts his advice will do any good- Laura Palmer was always destined to end up as _the dead girl._ She had been forced to play with fire, and it had consumed her in return. But though his words might not make a difference- she deserves a warning. It’s the right thing to do.

The next time, there is only one- the Man. Though Dale knows he has been in this room before- perhaps only a minute ago- nothing looks familiar about it. His heart steadily pounds out two words- _way out, way out, way out…_

When the Man asks for recognition, he shakes his head. Though they’ve met many times, he is still unaware of the Man’s identity. The lack of the ring is disconcerting, though until now he hadn’t remembered its existence. Everything feels new, as if he’s an actor who has rehearsed and rehearsed, only to forget his lines on opening night.

       “Where is the ring?” His is the sole voice that has not fallen under the Lodge’s nightmarish influence, but that might be because he hears his own voice uniquely. Perhaps a recording would show distortion, were it possible to document his current experience.

       “Someone else has it now,” says the Man, with astonishing nonchalance. A vision of its new bearer appears in Dale’s mind’s eye, and his heart lurches in his chest. “Annie… Annie!” Annie Blackburn, with whom he feels he’s been acquainted for years, though they’ve known each other for such a short time… He sees her now on a stretcher, covered in blood, her eyes glazed and blank. Annie, whose soul was brought unwillingly to the Lodge. Will death come on the heels of her new acquisition? Or will the ring bring her to salvation?

       Thoughts of the outside world spur his urgency, and he addresses the Man with a question of highest importance. “Where am I? And how can I get out?” _The Black Lodge_ , the map had said. _The Black Lodge,_ everyone believed. But the Man had said _waiting room_.

        “You are here,” the Man gleefully replies. “There is no way out… BUT HOME!” His mad cackling resounds across the room, only ceasing when the moody music that follows him like a lost puppy swirls through the air and the urge to dance absorbs him.

       Dale ignores the music’s tempting caress, regarding the Man solemnly. But inside, a tumult of painful emotion churns, too strong to put into words. A garbled voice replays in his head- “ _I’ll see you again in twenty-five years”-_ and he feels sick, as if he’s just discovered one of his dearest friends has been lying to him his whole life.

       Time flows differently here. It’s not so much a standstill as it is a total absence of the concept. There are no ticking clocks, no alarms to be set. Certainly not the embrace of sunlight or moonlight. He never thirsts, hungers, or feels the need to rest or relieve himself. Moments pass like ambient music, slipping into constant patterns that change so subtly he’s hardly aware.

       Music drifts in and out, signaling that somewhere, the Man is dancing. The catchy yet mournful notes take charge of his body, twisting him this way and that, turning him from the escape he pursues. Overhead, the bright lights never dim. They don’t burn his eyes like they would in the outside world, but the longer he stares at them the more he forgets himself, losing his sense of identity in an all-encompassing swell of desire. The sound of his own laughter pulls him from these dazes, and he hurries on, avoiding the full view of the ceiling.

       Worse than the lights are the unpleasant spirits that lurk within the dark room _(rooms?)_ , spirits he only encounters at random intervals. The only time terror grows within him is when he inadvertently enters this room. As the lights flash, he sees visions of Annie and Caroline and Annie again, and then a shrieking Laura, running at him with her eyes rolled back in her head. Then he finds himself outside the room, disoriented, feeling as though he’s been summoned and not knowing why.

        Moment after moment slips by like a soap bubble on a warm breeze. And still he wanders, searching futilely for an exit, though he knows deep down that he won’t find one. It’s a simple task to occupy his mind and body. Everyone needs a purpose, no matter how large or small, otherwise there is no meaning to one’s existence. So he makes searching his purpose, even as the reason for his search slips from his mind.

       Searching also helps drive away the concept of fear. He seems to have lost the capacity for it. Even the word “fear” sounds foreign, now that he’s set foot in the Lodge. It’s not unlike the time he lay incapacitated on the floor of the Great Northern Hotel, the pain and shock at being shot leaving nothing to contemplate but the end of his life. He figures his lack of fear is all that’s keeping him alive. If the spirits caught a whiff of it, he would be devoured.

       None of the mirrors in the Lodge work properly, so he examines his body with his hands. Rarely does he present less than a clean bill of health. Lines of age grow on his face, reminding him that he is not eternal and the Lodge is not his home. Sometimes his fingers come away stained with blood, as he relives old wounds. But the injury never lasts long.

       His company in the Lodge is woefully small. The Man he sees the most, always smiling infuriatingly and watching him out of the corners of his eyes. He is cordial, offering coffee and bestowing information upon Dale in the form of ominous rhymes. But Dale never accepts. For all he understands, the Man could still be the useless lopped-off arm he once was. More troubling are BOB’s brief appearances. Dale never catches sight of BOB, but when he visits the Lodge the air crackles with electricity, and he wrinkles his nose against the stench of engine oil. Each time he feels an acute loss of control, and aching pain- though he can’t put his finger on whether the pain is emotional or physical.

       Moment after moment after moment. As his body wanders, so does his mind, and he begins to dwell on the people he left in the outside world. Recalling their faces brings about stirrings of hope in his chest. Hope… and longing. In his head, Dale’s phantom friends motivate him to continue the fruitless search.

        He thinks of the Twin Peaks police station- _Lucy, Andy, Hawk, Harry_. The Bureau- _Gordon, Albert,_ and most of all _Diane_. His tape recorder hasn’t worked since he entered the Lodge, but he still makes attempts to talk to her, even if it’s only in his mind. The sound of his voice draws laughter from unseen corners of the room, so he’s inclined to keep his mouth shut.

        The name _Annie Blackburn_ whispers against his ears more often than any other. When he closes her eyes, she is there staring imploringly back. Failure swills through him- _I should have told her. I should have warned her to stay away._ He is to blame for endangering her life, so blinded was he by her inner beauty and innocence. He’d reached for the light, only to burn and suffer. The sun’s rays were never meant to touch him.

       _Just like Caroline. Just like Caroline…_

       He retreats from the depths of his mind to find Leland Palmer in front of him, gibbering his innocence with a wide smile. “I didn’t kill anyone. I tell you, I didn’t kill anyone.” He’s right, but Dale chooses not to acknowledge him. He knows the real Leland is elsewhere.

       The next time he enters the dark room, he finds Phillip Jeffries whimpering in the corner. The sight is so astounding that he rushes to his side, a steady stream of questions already forming on his tongue. But Jeffries only rocks himself back and forth in a huddled ball, sobbing and shouting about pain and a woman named Judy. The moment Dale touches him, Phillip Jeffries slips away, and the lights flash so brightly that they sear his eyes.

       When his vision clears, Laura Palmer is sitting beside him.

        It’s not the ugly shade of Laura he so frequently meets inside this room. This Laura wears a black dress and her blonde hair falls over her shoulders in waves. _All dressed up and nowhere to go._ He lays his hand on her shoulder, but she doesn’t seem to be aware of his presence. She’s choking with laughter- pure, real laughter, not the twisted laughter of the Lodge spirits. White, gentle light bathes the room, casting a radiant glow. He can’t interpret the source of the light- he can only see it from the corners of his eyes- but Laura’s transcendent joy implies that a good spirit has arrived. She is safe and happier than she ever was during her lifetime.

        Then the room is empty, but Laura’s image lingers in his head. He whispers silently to the tantalizing white light- _Take me with you._ But nothing comes. It never does, when he wants it.

        Not long afterwards, he wanders back into the waiting room and seats himself. In the corner, the Man convulses, and Laura- the real Laura- eyes him from her chair. When the Man begins to speak, Dale recognizes the scene. Each word has sounded in his head almost every moment he’s spent in the Lodge, though they no longer feel familiar.

       “She’s my cousin, but doesn’t she look almost exactly like Laura Palmer?”

       “I feel like I know her,” Laura says, “but sometimes my arms bend back.”

       As the Man dances to his invisible jazz band, Laura slinks across the room and opens Dale’s unresisting mouth with her lips. She tastes distinctly like formaldehyde and cheap red dye. Her cat’s purr of a voice teases his ear- “My father killed me.”

        At once despair rises in him. He’s overcome with the wild urge to raise his voice and shout to his dreaming self- _“Tell Harry it can’t wait until morning! Tell Harry to arrange a meeting right away. Tell Harry now… tell him…”_

       But the moment ends, as it was always bound to, and he’s alone in the waiting room with nothing but a mug of plastic coffee for company. A vast sense of shame for his selfishness washes over him. What good would it have done if he had solved the case that night? He would have left before the town swallowed his heart. He would have never discovered exactly _why_ Leland Palmer had lay a hand on his daughter. With or without Dale’s involvement, the Black Lodge would still exist. BOB would still exist. Windom Earle would still exist. Men would continue to work evil in the outside world, evil that could not always be stopped by those who swore to uphold the law. Running away from Twin Peaks so early would not have solved anything. It was better to embrace the town in his open arms and accept its flawed existence…

       As he rises from his seat, the lights flicker, and a chill fills the room.


	2. Light (Transition)

       The floor beneath his feet starts to… vibrate? Shaking not like an earthquake, but like an animal trying to throw something off its back… Hastily he stands and nearly slips, his feet sliding fluidly across the floor as if it’s just been waxed. Trying not to trip over himself, he races to the hallway. Even the walls around him appear to be shaking, the curtains snapping back against sudden currents of air, revealing an endless yawning maw of blackness behind them. Could this mean… He hardly dares to think. The Lodge is collapsing in on itself! His prison is coming undone!

       As far as he knows, the lights in this hallway never flashed- though of course, he’s not sure whether he’s been in this exact hallway before. But as he now travels through it, his surroundings are illuminated in sharp bursts, alternating between cold, naked darkness and harsh light that stings his eyes. The floor hums and glows, but the glow is black, jagged bursts of lightning interrupting the white zigzag pattern. The air is uncomfortably clammy, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. He stops at the end of the hall, twisting the red fabric between his fingers, glancing back over his shoulder… and he sees the trembling, fluttering curtains and the lights on the fritz and the whole floor flickering on and off, like a glitch in the system of reality…

       He takes a step forward and finds himself grasping at nothing and blinking in what can only be real, natural sunlight.

       Dirt. Deep, brown dirt beneath his feet, filling his nostrils with an earthy scent. Blades of grass, chlorophyll spilling out onto his boots… Tall, encircling trees pressing in on him. _And there’s light._ No more eerie synthetic light for him. It’s real, it’s the _sun_ , he can _see_ it and most importantly he can _feel its heat._ For the first moment since… how many moments has it been?... he’s finally _warm._

       Mouth agape, eyes fluttering with the effort of trying to drink in so much visual stimulation, he whirls around, sure that if he turns his back for even a second he’ll find this all to be an illusion. In all the long moments he’s spent alone, the Lodge has never shown him anything like this. It must be a hallucination, a tantalizing scene that will be swallowed up if he looks away. Surely this will all dissolve and leave him with a memory too brief to have existed.

       But behind him is nothing but a long expanse of verdant trees, their branches swaying softly in the springtime breeze. ( _Springtime!_ Yes, it has to be springtime, because every leaf is green and the air feels warm and the sun is shining, and underneath his clothes- underneath his heavy suit jacket? What’s he _doing_ wearing this in such weather- he’s starting to vaguely perspire, his body aching for a taste of the fresh air…)

       He turns back around, stricken with wonder, unable to do anything but stand in place and soak it all up. Moment after moment spent confined in that Lodge, and now here he is… outside? He _must_ be outside. Maybe the Lodge disintegrated under the influence of some stronger power. Maybe its inhabitants didn’t want him around anymore. But explanations are trivial now- he’s _out,_ and he’s _free._ He’s free, and… and…

       And something is wrong with his eyes. The trees and plants surrounding him sharpen into perfect, vivid detail. That’s natural, that’s to be expected, he never had to wear glasses during his life outside the Lodge… The problem lies in looking further. He can’t see past the trees. When he peers from the clearing into the dazzling light, he can’t focus properly. Sunspots imprint themselves on his eyes. Blinking, he tears his gaze away from the light and holds his hand before his eyes, perceiving each mark that time has naturally etched into his flesh. Every detail is clear, his milky-white skin and long, creamy nails. So why can’t he see beyond?

       As he runs his fingers across his skin, he suddenly wonders why his body has aged so much, how many moments have passed in the Lodge, how long he’s been within… and then his knees begin to buckle, and he just barely reaches out to break his fall. His palms slam into the dirt, which stains them, putrefies them. Unable to hold himself upright, he succumbs to the wishes of his weakened body and sinks into the moist earth. His clothes are now dirtied, his senses fading, but he can’t bring himself to care. _I’m outside. Let me stay here. Leave me here on solid ground..._

       It isn’t long after that human life appears. With eyelids weighted like lead, he can’t see who’s coming, but he fancies he feels the vibrations of their footsteps squishing into the soft ground… _Of course! It must have just rained a few moments ago!_ That’s why the earth around him is so moist, that’s why the air smells fresh and new and there’s a tender breeze… A small, several-legged creature scurries across his face, but he can’t raise a hand to brush it off, his senses focused on the people approaching. The closer they get, the clearer their snatches of conversation become. He thinks he can hear the words “check up on…” “what do you think…” and “twenty-five years.” Then, for the first time in exactly that long, he loses consciousness.


	3. Sleep (Resolution...?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part was originally posted on my Tumblr as "Sleep." 
> 
> Details on what I changed can be found in the notes at the end of this chapter, as I feel some explanation is required.

       So much has changed in the outside world since he entered the Lodge. And at the same time, so much _hasn’t._ During his period of readjustment, trying to fit each memory of the Lodge into the confines of the sun’s rise and fall, he’s more surprised by what he finds familiar than what he finds foreign.

       The names, the buildings, the music (and thankfully, the food’s quality) at the Double R- those have refreshingly stayed the same. But the faces are all wrong. The easiest faces with which to acclimate himself are those of his friends from the police station. All he has to do is account for the years and age them up- like watching a computer render a suspect’s face. Gradually he manages to grow accustomed to a few faces he has never seen before, based on their logical genetic components. A period of rebirth often accompanies tragedy, and if the young generation he meets is any indication, then Twin Peaks is no exception.

 But there are still new faces he can’t seem to reconcile, as well as faces that are out of place. Worst of all are the missing faces, those whose departure means that he will never see them again _._ With a heavy heart, he processes the news of each loss. _Pete Martell… Margaret Lanterman… Annie Blackburn._

Of course he understands her absence, her need to retreat to a sanctuary and hole herself away. She’d spent the majority of her life in that state, after all. But he can’t help but feel at fault.

       Sometimes an unfamiliar face recognizes him, staring openly in cold terror, before hastily smothering their reaction. They seem to hope he won’t notice, but the angle of their body and lack of eye contact speaks louder than their words ever could.

       _It’s not about you personally,_ Harry reminds Dale when he privately remarks upon this behavior. _You have to remember that the last time we thought we saw you, you weren’t… you. That doppelganger left the whole town traumatized._

 _That doppelganger._ He says it so simply, alluding impersonally to its atrocities. Atrocities that no one is ready to fully divulge. Dale knows they would if he asked, but he refuses to do so. He has never shied away before, not even when her blood- both of their blood- was on his hands. But now that he’s readjusting, he finds himself reluctant.

        ( _How’s Annie_ , he had asked, and Harry flinched…)

        Thankfully they had killed it, sent it in an endless black ooze back to the nightmare from whence it came. Not-so-thankfully, it had been destroyed as an empty vessel. But until they find its new body, the town has been lulled into peace- the calm before a storm.

       Dale can read the worry in his friends’ tense postures whenever they come near him. He catches their side-eye glances whenever he does anything remotely out of the ordinary. Time and again he attempts to assuage them, using a series of prepared statements. By interchanging words, he manages to convince them as long as necessary. _I’m all right,_ he tells them. _I feel fine. I won’t hurt anyone. You’ve got greater things to focus on. Why don’t you get back to work…_

A twinge goes through his gut every time he makes such statements, because he’s not telling the entire truth. “Fine” is not the most accurate descriptor. But he stays silent, even when Harry confronts him, because there’s no way he can admit his experiences without raising alarm.

       He doesn’t tell anyone about the music. It ebbs and flows throughout the day, a throbbing beat in the back of his mind, with an occasional melody to accompany it. When music plays outside his head, he hones in on it immediately, the sound drowning out all voices speaking to him. It’s distracting, but not disruptive, so he doesn’t mention it. His attention span has been limited lately.

       He also decides not to let anyone know that no matter what he eats, it always brings a faint aftertaste of creamed corn. That is, when he doesn’t taste blood in the back of his throat. The flavor is sharp and pungent, but at the same time he has never been more appreciative of his favorite foods, as if he’s gained a new set of taste buds. It’s a situation he can learn to live with.

       He especially hides the fact that he hasn’t been able to sleep properly after leaving the Lodge. Once upon a time, he had spoken wearily to a rolling tape on the dangers of staying up late. He’d gathered this from a personal experiment on the subject, long ago. Three days is bad enough; a week is at best torture.

         Yet now he foregoes sleep, not because he wants to, but because he can’t seem to remember how to do it. The abundance of caffeine he dumps into his body probably doesn’t help, but he has always adored black coffee. Although he seems to have developed a habit of pouring it when no one’s watching, to make sure the coffee isn’t viscous or solid as it had been in the Lodge. He brews it late at night and then retires to the room Harry has helpfully provided for his adjustment period.

       A sense of gratefulness stirs in him as he shuts the door behind him. Even though his depth perception has returned, the sensory overload has died down, and the presence of multiple people feels more comforting than repellant, he can’t help but feel more normal whenever he’s shut away. After spending twenty-five years with the Lodge’s limited interior, his small room feels like home.

        _Twenty-five years._ He ruminates on this as he lifts the warm mug and breathes in the coffee’s scent. He’s been told his body has aged the appropriate amount, but lately he tends to avoid mirrors, hesitant to catch a glimpse of a face that doesn’t belong to him.

       _But if he were inside me, would I even notice…_

They tell him his eyes are underlined and bloodshot, that his face no longer registers emotion. He doesn’t mind hearing this, because he knows it’s true. Sometimes he feels more like a puppet of Dale, controlled by a higher power, than a human. It’s nothing he can help. The Lodge has seeped into his skin, and he can’t shake off its influence no matter how he tries.

        Staying awake does have its benefits.  He gets to experience true peace in the quiet of the night. He can count stars all night from the window. He will never miss a sunrise again, the orange glow piercing through the hazy pink sky, the flutter of geese punctuating the wisps of clouds…

       And as long as he’s awake, he can’t fall back into the nightmare in which he was previously trapped. If he doesn’t close his eyes for longer than a minute, the world will not shapeshift before him until he is back in that damn room, with the Man and the lurid red curtains and the black-and-white floor tiles and the strobes and screaming doppelgangers and angels sent from above…

      _The Black Lodge, superimposed against a ring of trees, a primal scream, a jarring clash in the night…_

       And _he_ won’t be there, decked out in his denim jacket and long, greasy hair, his mad eyes bugging out of his head and teeth bared into a dangerous smile. He’s rushing towards you, the scent of engine oil clogging your nose and overpowering you. In no time, his fingers slip around your throat.  Frantically you try to call out, but he’s choking you and you’re going limp and your faculties are failing one by one…

      _WHAM! Lights out. WHAM- you no longer hear his deranged screaming. WHAM, WHAM… You’re dead. You’re dead you’re dead you’re dead you’re…_

       Dale jerks awake, one hand reaching into thin air as if to implore BOB to keep away, the other hand crashing into his coffee mug and spilling its contents all over the bed. The scorch of burning liquid fully rouses him, and he straightens up, staring at his dripping bedcovers and rumpled clothing. All he can hear, louder than his pounding heart, is the mad screech of a saxophone and a smoothly descending bassline. His hands are violently shaking, as if compelled by a force outside his body.

       The strength of his reaction to the vision surprises him. His heart is beating quickly, too quickly, which he knows is not just an effect of the caffeine. Moreover, there’s sweat clinging to his forehead, even though the hairs on his arms are standing up as insulation from cold. Confusion reigns as the fear begins to die down. So many moments he’s spent in the Lodge, so many visions haunting him, and never did he let them break him. Why should this particular dream be the kicker?

      Dully he stares down at the spilled coffee. _It didn’t work._ Though he brewed it as strong as possible, he’s managed to sleep nonetheless. At least, the bedside clock says he has. He hardly remembers closing his eyes.

        After restoring his breathing to its normal pace, he climbs out of bed to gather a towel and clean up the spilled coffee. When he’s back in bed, he reaches reflexively to the bedside table, only to pull back when his brain catches up to his body. _Damn._ First thing tomorrow, he’s going to invest in a new tape recorder. If he can remember to make a note.

       All night he thinks he hears owls crying outside his window, but their words are indecipherable. They don’t have a lot to say, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned before, this story originally had something of a plot that gets resolved in (the now nonexistent) part four. I wrote a little about BOB taking on a new form and appearing to Cooper in a dream. That was my original speculation for the arc of the revival. I removed it now because I'd rather wait and see what actually happens than publish my ideas.
> 
> Also I'm not sure I still believe Annie is alive, but mentioning her (possible) death just didn't jive with the rest of this chapter. Along those lines, I previously speculated that Audrey wasn't alive, but her presence in the new cast list implies otherwise.


End file.
